


Perceptual Isolation

by Insatiable_Fox



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, BDSM, Bottom Harry Potter, D/s, Dirty Talk, Everyone cums and its lovely, Flogging, Happy Ending, Harry is a Little Shit, M/M, Obsession, Owls, Pain, Rough Sex, Sensory Deprivation, Sex Club, Top Draco Malfoy, Well it's a crush let's be honest, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:47:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 6,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23049550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insatiable_Fox/pseuds/Insatiable_Fox
Summary: Dear Mr Potter,You are most pleasurably invited to Iniquity's 1st Annual Sensory Play Evening, which shall commence Friday, March 16th at 8 pm sharp.Please register your attendance by promptly returning the completed questionnaire found in envelope II via fast owl (provided).Ardently awaiting your reply,The team at IniquityBritain's No.1 rated club for the deviant witch and wizardWritten for HP Kink Fest 2020
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 38
Kudos: 352
Collections: HP Kinkfest 2020





	1. Protais: Part I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elle Gray (Elle_Gray)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elle_Gray/gifts).



> ElleGray, I jumped on your prompt of 'sensory deprivation' and loved your additional notes. I've tried to follow what you wanted, but I fear it turned a little more roudy than I had originally anticipated.
> 
> Not going to lie, I've also added a nod or two in there just for us Kiwi's.
> 
> The piece is written with rather abrupt scene ends - for some reason I've always imagined that bloody Law & Order: SVU sound at the end of each chapter, so feel free to do the same.
> 
> As always, shout out to my beta Maddison, for editing my compleatly horrific word choices after a long day of Not Wrangling Civil Engineers. You go, girl.

[[This is the bloody sound that's haunted my dreams](https://youtu.be/gP3MuUTmXNk)]

The letters arrive at precisely eight forty-three on the eve of March Second by the way of tawny barn owl through a carelessly ajar window. Upon spotting Harry slumped, languid, at his oak dining table, the owl gives a small hoot before proceeding to drop its cargo directly onto the glossy pages of Witch Weekly, obscuring the airbrushed face of Draco Malfoy and near giving Harry a paper cut to the nose. Delivery complete, the owl retreats to a beam near the apex of the ceiling, possibly to await further instruction, contemplate the exact angle required to shit on Harry's third favourite chair, or engage in any number of obscure things owls are known to do when passing time, none of which Harry knows of himself, although suspects are destructive in nature. 

The two envelopes, successfully passing the myriad of detection spells Harry instinctively casts when presented with mail from unknown owls, are unremarkable at first glance. Thick yet plain parchment, nondescript in the extreme and bearing no telling marks other than his own name and address in black ink on the front, and an unbranded red wax seal to the back. One, however, Harry notes with as much interest as one can muster over envelopes, is decidedly plumper than its sibling and bears the number II delicately scribed above its seal; the thinner, the number I. 

For a moment, Harry toys with the possibility of rebelling against the unknown sender by opening the letter marked 'II' first thereby making a small yet strong statement about undesired mail from undisclosed sources. Alas, propriety wins in the end, and he reluctantly trades the second letter for the first, succumbing to the enigmatic yet compelling peer-pressure mystically exuded from most ascending sequences, and submits to their unwavering demand for compliance. Furthermore, he doesn't know for sure the letters are, in fact, undesirable, reasoning he can always incendio the buggers if they do prove to be so and clear his kitchen of illegitimate fowl via a soft stinging hex.

Feeling equal parts daft and proud, he rips open the first envelope and pulls the folded parchment out.

_Dear Mr Potter,_

_You are most pleasurably invited to Iniquity's 1st Annual Sensory Play Evening, which shall commence Friday, March 16th at 8 pm sharp._

_We promise a night of debauchery, abandonment, and wanton perversions, with all the safety measures, precautions, and discernment Iniquity is known for. Two public play areas will be available upon request on the night, with the remainder of our private rooms refurbished expressly with the art of perceptual isolation in mind by qualified professionals, to ensure no Wizard nor Witch find themself lacking in a particular instrument or device._

_As always, your anonymity is of the highest importance to us. For this reason, all guests are required to start the evening under one of our specifically-designed obscurity masks (patent pending), charmed to disguise all identifying marks, scars, and notables of the wearer. The masquerade can be removed if wished at any point of the night, however, please note this is not compulsory and can only be done by the individual in question._

_Please register your attendance by promptly returning the completed questionnaire found in envelope II via fast owl (provided)._

_Ardently awaiting your reply,_

_The team at Iniquity_

_Britain's No.1 rated club for the deviant witch and wizard_

Harry expels breath he hadn't known he was holding and reaches with a hand that is mostly steady for his now-lukewarm mug of tea, sleeve crinkling the looping images of achromic silk, silver-stained irises flecked with anarchism, hypnotic arches of dusky pink above pointed jaw. He runs a finger over the rippled page, smoothing out the creases so Malfoy's face stares up at him perfect once more. His tendency towards obsession is news to none, indeed the recipient of his preoccupation remains unchanged since youth. It's harmless; or so he tells himself late at night with dusk threatening to rise and the line of Draco's back scorched upon his eyelids, carbon copies flickering whenever Harry closes his eyes.

It's the fairytale ending, his happily ever after, El Dorado and Eden and pots of gold at the end of rainbows. Unattainable. Unreachable; the entire sub-section of un's witnessed over the course of 7,852 sunsets to sunrises and points of the meridians. It would be far too many silver linings for Draco's and his own predilections when concerned with the art of _jouissance_ to align; the former hardly appearing the type to dabble in the darker shades of copulation. Harry has been wrong in the past, of course - learnt the face one wears for day has no determination on the one worn after dusk or between the sheets - yet contrary to whatever fantasies his heart conjures on the matter, his mind rejects the notion that the man Harry pursues through the glossy pages of the tabloids would have any inclination whatsoever to _incarcerous_ Harry against the wall, flog him within an inch of his life, and fuck him into oblivion. 

Ultimately futile. Ultimately harmless; unless he let himself hope. 

So he doesn't. Resolutely so, even as he opens letter II with completely-stable fingers, checks the boxes with his chicken-scratch penmanship next to _submissive_ and _masochist_ and _total relinquishment of control_ , an exhaustive cross-examination presented all in the name of one supposedly unforgettable night of depravity. A two-hundred-and-twelve-answers-long dissertation of the various ways, positions, soft limits, hard limits, turn-ons and turn-offs in which Harry James Potter resolutely does not hope that Draco Malfoy, in some octuré play of Fate's dice, is a man behind a mask. 

He doesn't hope; at night he dreams.


	2. Protais: Part II

_Dear Mr Potter,_

_We are exceedingly excited to confirm your attendance for tonight's Sensory Play Evening._

_Please report to Iniquity's vestibule between the hours of 7.30 and 7.45 pm, where our wanton assistants will be awaiting your arrival and finalizing your paperwork*._

_As per our previous correspondence, please find attached to owl** your Obscurity Mask™ for the evening. A loving reminder you are required to arrive and commence the evening wearing this._

_Headily awaiting your arrival in approximately 8.25 hours time,_

_The team at Iniquity_

_Britain's No.1 rated club for the deviant witch and wizard_

_*Please note, after the return of your previous owl (Reginald) bearing the alteration of blue feathers, we will now require you to fill out the compulsory disclaimer forms in-wizard as a precautionary measure against the discolouration of messenger birds._

_**Please ensure the return of owl (Lucifer) unmodified_

Harry regards the new owl, which has retreated to the relative safety of his second favourite candelabrum, possibly to either calculate the exact angle required to shit on Harry's head or as instructed to ensure the preservation of its original colouration, from above the rim of his glasses. He thinks the club is taking the whole owl thing a tad too far. Indeed, Harry himself had found owl one - _Reginald_ \- utterly charming when sporting feathers of cyan, navy and teal, and he'd only charmed the bird in the first place due to its reluctance in preforming it's fucking job and returning Harry's questionnaire response. Apparently, Iniquity takes no chances, however, with their avians. Once owl two - _Lucifer_ \- has established Harry's opening of the Very Important Post, it hoots, daintily dislodges the Obscurity Mask™ from its beak, and, for all sense and purposes, absolutely gaps the fuck out of Harry's bedroom, the location where it had arrived unannounced only several minutes prior. 

Admittedly and arguably understandably, Harry considers penning a very firm letter to the manager of Iniquity regarding the sanitation of his mask and the myriad of health and safety concerns he's now forced to contemplate after the transportation of said mask in the surely saliva-filled mouth of owl two. Despite the immense satisfaction doubtlessly gained from the writing of such a missive, in the end, he merely flicks a _scourgify_ at the black domino mask, followed by a freshening charm. He fears he's already gained an asterisk beside his name in their black book, and it would be an unfortunate turn of events to suddenly find himself barred from tonight's provocatives. A coil of anticipation unfurls itself along Harry's spine at the thought of what awaits him this evening, arousal digging heady talons into his vertebrae until he's completely overwhelmed and near begging from mere fantasy. 

Iniquity has taught him much over the past seven years; he'd unearthed himself within the shadowed haven it offered, unknowing until then he'd needed to be found. It was in their alcoves where he discovered what he needed, what it meant to want something different than others. What it felt like to bend until he broke and then be rebuilt whole. 

What it felt like to submit. 


	3. Protais: Part III

Black brick, arches of white, Calcutta marble columns. 

Harry knows this exterior as an old friend. Has walked the path of pale stone too many times to count, the crunch of pebble underfoot now synonymous with the crack of a cane, the hiss and rub of rope, the smell of sweat and blood and cum, this anonymous stage for base needs and primal instinct. 

The heavy door is smooth, cold under his hand and always surprisingly pliant to his touch, swinging open on soundless pins with no resistance nor complaint. 

His feet, encased in black combat and laced to the shin, are muffled on the polished kauri floor, even the wood here unwilling to divulge clues of the walker for trespassing ears with intent to harm. 

A door to the right opens, the gentleman Harry knows only as The Manager revealed. 

"Sir," The Manager greats in tones of honey and oil and draped velveteen, a voice Harry is occasionally known to imagine whispering instruction in his ear, even if the body behind it does little for his lust. This body, at least, to be more precise; the air around the man undulates ever so slightly, and although it has crossed Harry's mind before to enquire about the need for disillusionment, in time he's come to accept it. The Manager gestures Harry inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click and regarding him with eyes far too sharp in the plush luxury of the room. "Mr Potter. A pleasure to see you, as always. Please take a seat, old bean."

An eyebrow is raised above the soft edging of a mask and Harry waits, questioning. 

"Your magical signature, Mr Potter," The Manager answers knowingly, eyes warming a fraction as he settles himself behind his desk. "You can rest assured your face is quite unidentifiable. Enthralling, isn't it, how the little quirks of nature and fate govern completely the recognition of others." He clears his throat with a low chuckle. "But I doubt you're here to entertain the musings of one such as myself. If you'd be so kind as to sign these, please, then we can get on with the eve's proceedings." The Manager pushes a small scroll of parchment toward Harry with delicate, olive-toned fingers, perfectly manicured nails glinting under the warm light of the room. Unfortunately, as he is occasionally known to do, Harry's overcome by the instinctive urge to be a giant cock and query whether the nails came with the faux-body or if he did, truly, have someone waiting on him hand, ass and foot. He's gearing up to, deliberating whether to mention the owl sanitation issue whilst at it because, really, if he's going to be a prick he may as well notch it up to cunt and make a decent scene, but a ruffle of blue catches his eye and he makes the mistake of looking over only to make rather intense eye contact with an extraordinary owl of azure complexion. The bird hoots, possibly aggrieved, however one can never know for sure. In Harry's experience, one hoot sounds much like the other, so he feels free to interpret hoots however the hell he wants; in this instance as a warm hello to an old comrade. 

"Lovely bird you have there," Harry settles for instead, throwing The Manager a bland smile and reaching for the scroll, uncurling the parchment with a slight yet awfully sarcastic flourish of his wrist. He barely glances at the contents before signing his rights to all aspects of human decency away with a scrawl from the ink-dipped raven feather proffered by The Manager, who barely entertains more than a smug twitch of his lip throughout the small power struggle. Harry's not concerned about the waiver; he's signed more than one since he began attending such libertine establishments, but his inability to faze The Manager is somewhat disconcerting. 

"Wonderful, Mr Potter," The Manager says with a bow of his head, the scroll disappearing from under Harry's hand abruptly. "Business is such a bore, isn't it, my chap, although demand of us it does. Gustavo will escort you to your room now - private, as you stipulated in your questionnaire, and your paramour for the evening will be with you shortly." The door opens and Harry turns to see a young man waiting, clad in the usual Iniquity uniform of a few scraps of leather and not much else, all plump lipped and doe-eyed and fire-burnt hair throwing reds and golds under the candlelight. 

"Sir," Gustavo says, with just the right amount of deference that Harry is certain he'd be throwing the twink against the mahogany wall panelling in an instant if Harry had even a whisper of dominant inclination in his body. As it is, he's already half-hard imagining himself and Gustavo submitting under the boot of some Dom-Daddy, bodies slick with sweat and taut with forbidden release. He shakes the thought from his head as he dutifully follows Gustavo from The Manager's office and down the hall, through corridors of closed doors and the thrum of heavy silencing charms.

Before long Gustavo pauses outside a door inscribed with an ornate _nine_ , gracing Harry with a small nod that doesn't entirely hide the way his eyes sweep over Harry's body. "Your room for the evening, Sir," he murmurs with a coy caress of his thumb over the wood framing before grasping the handle and pushing the door open, stepping back a fraction to let Harry enter. 


	4. Protais: Part IV

Shadow and light and barren, inky blackness. 

A spotlight of sorts hangs from the middle of the ceiling, the perfect circle of light illuminating only a small centre of the void where a deep red X has been marked into the floor. Darkness edges the boundary of this out-of-place brilliance; beyond the circle, nothing can be seen, the edges of confinement hidden within infinite tenebrosity. Anything and everything could be held in this adumbration, malignant or benign, and Harry feels the first fissure of fear spark upon his neck. He takes a step forward, the door closing softly behind him, and takes a steadying breath. 

The room remains unchanged despite his entering, but he can feel the thrum of magic that wraps the boundaries of this space, perceive the dampening of his magic, a weight upon his skin that prickles like an itch under his flesh. Unconsciously, drawn by the unwritten rules of fellowship toward X-marks-the-spot and one's placement on the stage, Harry moves forward until both feet are planted on the vermillion cross, arms loose at his side and head unintentionally bowed in a gesture of submission. 

"Don't panic."

The voice carries from somewhere within the depths of the surrounding abyss, husky, muffled, out of place in the preceding nothingness. Appeasing, of sorts, but Harry freezes as the sound reaches him, hand delayed by a momentous moment before going for his wand. It's only a second. A fraction of a sliver of time whilst his mind and body war with _fight_ or _flight_. Yet a second is all it takes, a second too long; blankness drapes across his vision and his sight is lost. 

"Don't move." The voice is closer this time, stricter, a command. Even as hand inches closer to wand, Harry can feel his will crumple against the directive in the unknown man's tone. It's definitely a man, there's no mistaking the low tenor and rasp as anything but, and even though on some level Harry knows it must be his elusive partner for the night, his fear is a visceral foe. "I'd stop making for your wand, if I was you," the voice comments, still closer, gaining on him. "Of course, it won't do much in here, but it would be ill-advised to anger me this early on in the evening, wouldn't you agree?" A pleasant threat, dangerous all the same. It's what Harry signed up for, after all, isn't it? Submission and dominance and no-holds-barred, complete abnegation for an unknown stranger behind a mask; he hadn't factored on not having his sight, however. 

"Better," the voice concedes, and Harry remembers with a jolt that although he cannot see more than the light-speckled black veiling his eyes, the other man can. "The sooner you learn your place for the night, the sooner we can begin to play." He sounds like a cat stalking his prey, this other man, addictive and heady, toying with Harry before going for the kill. He can feel the air move around him, the electric caress of another body stood just out of range. If he reached out a hand, it would connect with the others. 

He doesn't move. 

"It came to me not long ago how absolutely one relies on their senses to navigate the world," the man comments, sounding eerily similar to The Manager not half an hour prior. "Every little thing we do is governed by these small yet compelling clues, collected unthinkingly by our persons yet instrumental to who we are. How we react." He slows, drawing the words out, a whisper, _caress_ , across Harry's ears. "Sight. Touch. Sound. Taste. Smell." A breathy pause, a building of anticipation, the moment before the fall. "So I decided, for tonight. I'm going to take them away. And it will only be with your complete compliance that they'll be returned." 

Before Harry can react, everything disappears. 


	5. Epitasis: Scene 0 (The Nothing)

He is naught. Oblivion. Numb and completely anesthetized, wrapped in a cocoon of blankness, he flounders, cut off completely from everything that gives him life. His mind feels trapped, racing like a rabbit caught in a snare. Unable to move, defend, fight, flee. 

Time surely advances, yet for Harry it's meaningless. Unable to track the passing of the clock, calm himself with the sound of breath inhaled and exhaled, be reassured by the steady thump of his heart. 

It's worse than the platform of purgatory, the killing curse, crucio; any and all pain gained and survived, ever felt. 

He'd choose death a thousand times over if given a choice between it, and a lifetime of _this_ ; this nothingness. 


	6. Epitasis: Scene I (Smell)

It could have been minutes, hours, weeks, an eternity; at some point between then and now, Harry finds he can smell again. It's sharp, abrasive, a bouquet of aromas bombarding him from all sides. Every mote of fragrance burns his nostrils, and he sucks it in hungrily, headily, desperate for the scent of life, affirmation of the dissipation of naught. 

He's a bloodhound. Scents washing over him in a storm of sensation, crucial clues building the room around him in his head; if he could shudder he would. Perhaps he does, overwhelmed and silently gasping, screaming in his head. 

The smell of magic, near electric, burning acrid through his sinus' in this new heightened state of awareness. The room itself, the hint of dust and residue of cleaning charms, an underlying caress of floral and clean linens. The promise of _something_ , in the dank, oiled smell of worn leather, white smoke-ash of melted wax, fire throwing astringent blooms to the air. The earthy, primal odour of dragonhide, underlaid by the synthetic tang of rubber; the sweet yet bitter piquancy of new alloys. 

And lemons. 

A boundless tempest of citrus battering his body, lemon woven through every mote and dust and flicker carried on the air, permeating in totality the sum of Harry's entire being. He swims in it, could bathe in it, roll himself up in it and wear it as a cloak. Delicate, overpowering, subtle, callous, it tangles and chokes through his olfactory passages, claiming _ownership_ and _master of_ and conquering every inch of himself until he's reduced to nothing more than the sharp cut of bitter and only a flicker of what it meant to be Harry. 


	7. Epitasis: Scene II (Taste)

Plastic and rubber and pungent, bitter wrongness; numbing, stinging, filling his mouth, unable to be dislodged. 

He is still citrus, but now this too; saliva pooling in the creases between gum and _foreign_ , taste-buds abruptly awoken and thrust into use. 

Harry's gagged. He knows that much, is familiar with the stretch and clamp and taste of a ball-gag lodged firmly between teeth. His response is instinctive; the aftermath of days and evenings spent like this in this very club, although never under such pretences. Never with only his taste and smell to guide him through a scene. His arousal is a potent swirl of lust and apprehension, the lick of intoxicating stimulation at the base of his spine. Harry's sure he can smell it, pheromones on the air as if he's suddenly a werewolf, sure that his dick must be swelling, his toes curling. He wants to cry out, shudder. Bend and twist under the misinstrations of an unknown man his mind cannot help but mould into Draco. It's not. He knows it's not, he wouldn't, couldn't, be that lucky. Is positive his body would know somehow, even without a face to guide him. Yet here in this blankness, the stranger's unknowingly given him a gift: the prerogative for fabrication. Unconditional allowance to pretend. 

Pretend Harry does. 

So when the taste of rubber leaves his tongue, it's Draco who removes the obstruction. The sweet, earthy salt of human skin comes from Draco's fingers, as Harry obligingly lets them fill his mouth; as if he has any choice in what this man feeds him. That recedes too, into what feels like an eternity of emptiness until it is replaced, perhaps somewhat hesitantly, perhaps even gently, with a primal musk and bitter hint Harry would know anywhere. A mere tease, a drop, across his lips and tongue before it too is abruptly gone, but belonging to Draco nevertheless. 

_The taste of Draco_. His mind is insistent. His body craves more. He knows he's doomed. 


	8. Epitasis: Scene III (Sound)

The snap of a whip hisses through the air, echoing thunderous and sharp in his ear. 

Harry jolts, or thinks he does; there's the sound of scrambled purchase against wooden floors. He doesn't have time to acclimatise to the sudden onset of sound, however, before another crack of leather slices past his other ear, close enough this time he can smell the worn musk it leaves in its wake. Harry gulps in a breath, his inhale sharp in the otherwise quiet of the room; hears the jagged pant of his breathing, the slight rasp at the end. How long has he been like this, vocal for his companion yet deaf upon his own ears? What else has his body betrayed whilst locked in a cage of nothing? The thought warms his cheeks. He can only guess how he appears to faux-Draco, gasping and moaning and whimpering and fuck knows what else from the smallest of olive-branches the man proffers. Harry hasn't even been touched, yet he's already at the point of begging. For what, he's not sure. 

The floor groans under the man's muted footfalls. Harry tracks the movement around the room, hearing the squeak of what sounds like PVC clad thigh against PVC clad thigh. He can only wonder what the other is wearing if he sounds like _this_ ; if Harry's attire of dark jeans and a simple white t-shirt seems disgustingly blasé when compared to the exotics this man apparently drapes himself in. The scent of lemons grows closer, tinged with the earthy smell of sweat, and a low clank of chain against chain. 

Harry braces, internally if not externally. 

"Have you been good for me, pet?" the man murmurs in Harry's ear, voice like sex and velvet and all things wanton. Harry can only whimper, high and needy, beautifully depraved and yet disgustingly pathetic; how he's fallen to such levels with mere sound, taste, smell. The stranger laughs lowly, Draco's laugh in Harry's mind. "Look at you squirm. You've been enjoying my game, it seems," he continues, "although for someone chained as you are, you manage to writhe rather delightfully." Harry hears something he can only describe as a licentious purr shudder from his own lips, and the man laughs again. "Utterly shameless, aren't you? I bet I could make you come from nothing other than my voice if I so desired to see you blow your load inside your pants." Another broken groan, the sound of a button pulled through denim, the rasp of fabric moved over bare skin. When faux-Draco speaks again, it's with a tinge of amusement. "It appears I should probably stop talking."

The chains - manacles, cuffs for all Harry knows - jangle again. He's sure the man is doing it on purpose, a sound meant to put him on edge. It's working, although if it's trepidation the man's after he'll be disappointed. Harry's filled with plenty of distress, a fucking cornucopia of _apprehension_ , it's simply less of the terrified sort, and more toward sheer bloody mindless urgency to get pseudo-Draco's hands on him. _To feel_ pseudo-Draco's hands on him, have the steel links of whatever's clinking draped across his body, revel and bow under the weight of restraint whilst the blunt end of a cane carves rivers of blood across his back. 

Harry groans, cock undoubtedly straining against his stomach, ruddy and weeping pre-cum, desire stringing his every nerve taut. 

" _Merlin fuck, mon tueur_ ," the man mutters, voice strained.

There's something in the sound of his tone. A familiarity which grates along Harry's subconscious, an articulation his mind insists he should know. 

He ponders it for a minute. Long enough to rule out the worst-case scenarios: Ron. Lockhart. Filch. 

Long enough to brush aside the best. 

Then the sound of a match being struck reaches his ears, the scent of igniting phosphorus, burning wick, melting paraffin soon following, and the sliver of recognition is abandoned for the promise of " _going to burn you, pet_ ," in his ear. 


	9. Epitasis: Scene IV (Touch)

His body is alive under a ceaseless conflagration. Harry writhes, trapped, fighting uselessly against the biting lines of chain that hold him hostage. Burning, aflame, white-hot and incandescent; surely charred to gleaming bone. 

Frozen pinpricks on his cock that's softened under solidifying flame, a frigid trail which spreads down his balls, hovers above his arse. It blisters in the way only the cold can do; glacial daggers of brumal heat slicing over his still-burning flesh, pooling in the hollows of stomach, hip, chest. 

He is fire and ice and everything in between; numb, hypersensitized. The constant scent of citrus is his only alleviation from the utter ruination of mind and body, the single thread of sanity proffered to navigate the callous, cimmerian maze of sensation. He longs to cry out, would plead on bleeding knees if his voice could utter anything more than broken whimpers. 

"Circe's tits, you're so _vulgar_ ," Draco interrupts, the awed hush of his voice soothing upon Harry's skin; for a moment he forgets himself, preens and _wants_ under Draco's compliment. Except it doesn't come from Draco; _Draco's_ no more than a beautiful lie spun from the pathetic depths of Harry's desire, a desperate mirage conjured of a crush who refuses to fade. 

A cleaning spell washes over his skin, taking with it the tendrils of self-pity, dragging him into the reality of darkness and masks and aching, raw limbs. "I do hope you're back with me," the man says, tone firm, commanding, flickered with enough tenderness to yank Harry's lust to the forefront of importance. He feels the touch of fingertips over his arms, waist, legs, the removal of the constraints holding him immobile. Groans, as sure-hands guide him upright, holding him steady as he finds his balance on shaky feet, wand-calloused palms of Harry's lover rough against his sensitive skin. 

He can hear the man move away from him, aches with the loss of contact. On a breath of defiance and through wayward lips he hears himself ask, "what's your name?" 

His companion's quiet, long enough Harry doesn't think he'll get an answer. It's understandable, expected, not as if Harry's offering up his own; yet. There's something about the voice he can't shake, though, an insistence on familiarity niggling from some deep corner of his mind. Harry wants this man, in false illusion and not. What he's offering, promised. Fear of recognition, however, toward both him and his opponent, is not easily overcome, even in the midst of the moment. 

An answer does ultimately come, eons later, an eternal war waged with victor drawn. "Truly, pet, you don't want to know," the man eventually says, as if this admission in itself is painful. Harry wants to protest, indeed takes a blind step forward, arm outstretched and fingers searching for the warmth he's only felt teases of, intent on offering some sort of confirmation. But his palm falls on empty air, gesture rebuffed, and Harry withdrawals his arm to his side, illogically hurt by the spurn. 

The sound of a throat being cleared hangs in the stillness. Harry waits, not wanting to admit he's at a loss; not when his companion is so obviously rattled. He feels like a bit of a shit if he's honest. Standing here blind, hearing too much and seeing too little, unsure what to say or do. 

The pendulum swings. Years pass in the rise and fall of respiration. 

"Take off your shirt." 

It's a command. Harry complies, dropping his t-shirt to the floor in a heap. 

"Pants."

They're riding low on his hips, button undone, waistband tucked under the curve of his sac. Harry pushes them down, stepping out of the legs awkwardly; all the elegance and sex-appeal of a newborn fawn. 

"Turn around."

He feels exposed. Under scrutiny. The centrepiece of some convoluted art installation, waiting to be declared unworthy or inspired by the fortuitous roll of the dice.

"Walk forward until you touch the wall."

His cock is hardening, arousal stirring heady in the base of his spine. The wall is cool under his touch, polished stone or worn wood panelling. He rests his cheek against the surface. Stifles a moan as his dick grazes it. 

"Spread your legs. Further. There are handholds; grip them."

The wall is subtly textured, slightly roughened. Harry finds the brackets, curls his hands around the grooved bars. Lets his head dip forward. Inhales. Exhales. Tries not to tense. Fails. 

"You will not let go of the handles. You will not close your legs. You will stay as fucking still as humanly possible, or so help me Merlin, I'll strap you to that Judas Cross in the public room and let every sadist in England have a turn at your back."

Harry shudders, goosebumps rising along his neck. Tightens his hold on the supports, cock aching. Waits for fate to strike. Wonders on the form it'll appear in. 

It starts as a smattering of rain across his shoulders. Down his back, his sides. A caress. The gentle nip of supple hide, haphazard in its affections, is nothing more than polite forewarning for the skin under touch. Warming. Stimulating; the kiss of a lover. 

He hears his stranger reposition, ground himself. 

The smattering turns heavier, from nips to teeth-edged bites. More precise as to where it lands, the added force sharpening the accuracy of each weighted tail. They build upon themselves, turning blushing blooms to livid ridges, livid ridges to swollen, magenta welts with each addition. Harry's weight is on his hands, mouth open and head drooping, nerves alight as instinct attempts to predict where the next blow will fall. 

Both sets of breathing echo audibly in the room. Heavy yet controlled. Fractured and jarred. 

Down the leather curves, attention sweeping from shoulder blades to inner knees, staining the sensitive flesh of his arse and thighs maroon in an instant. The strikes are sharper here, burning. Blood welling just under the skin, broken capillaries unfurling like roads across barren land, a map of the flesh already explored. A beacon for further pain to descend upon.

The leather connects lower, one studded-end a hippogriff's hair away from the fragile swell of Harry's balls. He convulses, hands gripping white-knuckled to the wall. Illegible words ring out alongside the crack of a whip, and it takes him far too long to register the garbled cries as his own. Beyond pain, beyond arousal; all Harry knows is he needs something else. He moves his legs wider, bends lower, exposes more. 

The weighted-licks land, slipping down his crease, grazing his entrance. "I'm going to fuck you, pet," this illusion of Draco-yet-not promises with a grunt, voice cracking. "And you're going to watch your arse take every last inch of it."

Darkness is replaced with blinding white as Harry shouts, dick untouched and flesh on fire, body arched in an apery of prayer, sullying the wall with his release. 


	10. Epitasis: Scene V (Sight)

The man is beautiful. 

Sight returned, eyes burning from dimmed light that near burns, his body spun and stretched taut under his companions strength, yet all Harry can do is look. 

Willowy, tall, pale. Legs wrapped in the shiny clutch of synthetic black leading up to a chest clothed with scarcely more than the mere suggestion of mesh, heeled boots crafted from the muted iridescence of dragon hide reaching to the knee. 

Anywhere else, on anyone else, it'd look ludicrous, grotesque. Less mutton dressed as lamb and more Bambi in sky-high stilettos, absurd in its sensuality on a form so outwardly pure. 

From a distance, one could think it was him. 

But it's not. 

The hair is darker, dirty blond, skin light honey rather than porcelain white. His eyes, framed by the dark domino mask, are robin-egg blue where they should be cinereous, iris speckled with hints of moss-green. The voice is wrong, his skin derelict of the history signifying battle and war. He's an apprentice's rendition of a master's original, so similar yet completely lacking; close enough that it _couldn't_ be Draco by the sheer nature of the masquerade they wear. 

Beautiful. Competent, _sufficient_ as he clutches Harry's hips, lifts him up, slams him to the wall. Command's Harry's presence in the roll of his hips, the bite he sinks into the soft round of Harry's nipple. 

Either he leaves his body or loses his mind, for the next thing he sees are his legs hooked around the man's waist, his pelvis canted, fingers digging into the harsh lines of his lover's shoulders. If prep spells are cast, Harry misses them; the cock pressing insistently at his entrance is slick, yet the burn of muscle hurriedly stretched as he's filled completely with one agonising thrust threatens blackout. His head thumps hard as it connects with the wall, arse protesting with each shallow breath he takes. 

In a show of what may be kindness but is more probably a selfish attempt to stave off instant climax, the man stills once Harry's impaled, eyes squeezed shut in concentration or content. Under the mesh, his chest is beaded with sweat, hair sticking to the curve of his neck, pants pushed haphazardly to mid-thigh, utterly indecent. "Merlin's scrotum," he mutters, and Harry's surprised by the laugh that bubbles from his mouth, how the motion seems to quell an inch of the fire in his arse. He wriggles cautiously, testing. 

It's taken as impatience, a demand.

The man fucks him like wildfire. Branding, ravaging, an all-consuming inferno Harry hadn't known he'd needed to burn in 'till now, pain slowly morphing into the lush smoulder of desire with each thrust. He could lose himself in this stranger. To the slap of sweat-soaked skin on skin, beneath the intoxicating agony of his back shredding under the imperfections of the wall, puffy weals tearing, painting crimson over pink.

The angle changes and urgency blooms, Harry's stomach clenched, dick trapped in the overwhelming friction created between their bodies. It's absolutely ridiculous, the notion he's ready to burst again so soon, outlandish with the blanket of torment layering his torso. The man's hands supporting his hips move, curling under Harry's arse, one finger reaching to trace the seam of their unity. 

He shudders, face pressed into the valley of Harry's neck. 

" _Fuck, pet_." 

Grazes the sharp edge of his nail across the puffy stretch of swollen hole, forces the tip of his finger into wet tightness, scratches the abused flesh with a vulgar twist of his wrist. 

Harry shatters. The coup de grâce, and with it the intoxicating nihility he craves. He's feral, floating, flying. 

So gone he almost misses the resonance of his name ripped brokenly from between gritted teeth as he's followed into euphoria. 

Retains consciousness long enough to utter Draco's in return. 


	11. Denouement

It is one thing to wish for the unattainable. Another to have it presented in a naked, shuddering heap on your lap. 

Your fingers tremble as they trace the boundaries of his visage, unsteady under the growing certainty it is indeed him. Unidentifiable, your ass; it's not easy to veil features fantasised about since youth now you let yourself look. 

His hair catches around your fingers, dark to your light. Eyes the wrong shade of green open at the tug, flicker over the face you're suddenly desperate to have looking like your own. 

_Surely he knows it's you_. 

It was your name he breathed. You're certain; sane. _Fucking Blaise and his fucking club_. 

A simple bow is all that's holding this falseness to your skin; thread and magic. 

The ribbons unfasten beneath your fingertips.

You let the mask fall. 


End file.
